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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513379">The Aftermath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads'>Sophie_skates_reads</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Amputee, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, DJ Otabek Altin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Otabek Altin is a Good Boyfriend, Otayurio, Prosthesis, Yuri Plisetsky Is A Little Shit, Yuri Plisetsky Is So Done, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat, Yuri is a Ballerina, Yuribek, medically incorrect, otayuri - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:21:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was hard to lose a limb. It was even harder when, in the course of one dinner, you went from the youngest prima ballerina in the Bolshoi ballet to a surgery-marred amputee with a lost dream and what felt like no purpose left in life.<br/>~<br/>Or: Yuri loses his leg in a gas leak at a restaurant and this is him and Otabek trying to deal with the aftermath. (Tehe)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Otabek Altin &amp; Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Victor Nikiforov &amp; Yuri Plisetsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's not Mpreg!<br/>There's hope!<br/>(There's really not, my sanity left a long time ago)<br/>Anywho, I'd like to preface this by saying that I am not an amputee nor am I close with any amputees. I have obviously never experienced what the characters are going through and, while I did research on the subject (research-- a word synonymous with *kinda* stalking an amputee Youtuber's channel and then subscribing because I really liked her content) I do not claim to be anything more than an author who had an idea and knows a whole lot of nothing on the subject matter. That said, if you are an amputee or close to an amputee and would like to correct me (because we all know I got a <i> lot </i> wrong) please feel free to do so! And, lastly, I really hope that I didn't offend anyone with this story. I know that everyone's experiences are different and this is just what I think would happen in this story for this set of characters. If you feel uncomfortable or want to talk, please don't hesitate to reach out to me!<br/>And now, without any further ado, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was hard to lose a limb. It was even harder when, in the course of one dinner, you went from the youngest prima ballerina in the Bolshoi ballet to a surgery-marred amputee with a lost dream and what felt like no purpose left in life.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Yuri didn’t remember that day. Otabek only remembered bits and pieces: he remembered Yuri crying; -- it had been the thing that had woken him up after the blast -- anywhere, anytime, Otabek could be brought back to the present by Yuri’s tears. He remembered struggling to stand, pulling himself from the rubble and staggering through the ruins of the restaurant, calling Yuri’s name as loudly as he could through the smoke and the haze. He remembered finding him, falling to his knees beside him, and pulling uselessly at the pillar that crushed Yuri’s right leg beneath it. He remembered Yuri’s quiet tears running tracks through the dust and grime on his face, and how Yuri’s hand clung weakly to his as he sat by his side, Yuri’s head pillowed in his lap, hearing sirens in the distance. </p>
<p>Otabek remembered the waiting room, the terror he’d felt as they pulled Yuri away from him as soon as they got out of the ambulance, rushing him off to surgery or something equally important. Otabek remembered how he’d struggled and insisted that <i> he was fine </i> as the ER doctors tried to examine him, remembered how they’d threatened to drug him if he wouldn’t lie still and stop fighting. Otabek remembered the relief he’d felt when a doctor came up to him in the waiting room after he’d been pronounced <i> medically fine </i> and told him that Yuri had pulled through. He remembered the horror of seeing Yuri’s leg for the first time.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Yuri was an award-winning dancer, coveted and internationally honored: a dancer with a dazzling career ahead of him. Yuri was, as of April 7th, 2026, a cripple. </p>
<p>After the explosion -- it had been a gas leak, as it was later discovered -- it had taken five surgeries for Yuri’s livelihood to be pronounced unsalvageable, and for Yuri’s leg to be lopped off for good. </p>
<p><i> Five. </i> </p>
<p>Before every surgery, there had been the hope that, with this one, he’d regain full mobility; after every surgery, he was told that there had been a complication. Until, eventually, Yuri wasn’t told <i> only </i> that there had been a complication, but that there had been a life-threatening complication, that his heart had stopped on the table, and that the only to save him, had been to amputate. </p>
<p>Yuri would never forget the day he’d woken up without a leg.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Don’t give up,” they said, “fight for it,” they said, “you’re an athlete -- you can do this!” they said. Yuri said that he wasn’t an athlete anymore.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The meeting with the prosthetist hadn’t gone well. If not for Otabek, it probably would have been much worse. </p>
<p>Yuri was the least receptive patient he had ever worked with, the prosthetist -- Yuri refused to learn his name out of spite -- hadn’t been afraid to tell him. It was okay to grieve, to mourn your loss, the prosthetist had also told him, but it wasn’t okay to let it consume your life and stop you from doing what you loved. Yuri had spat that he would never be able to do what he loved again, and, to his fleshy, useless, lump of a leg, he’d said: “consume away.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Otabek hadn’t been happy when they’d gotten home, Yuri could tell. But, of course, being the patient, <i> dutiful </i> fiance he was, he said nothing, and helped Yuri from the car, carefully withdrawing his hands and making no comment when Yuri slapped them away and growled that he wasn’t an invalid, dammit: fuck off, he could do it himself. </p>
<p>Otabek hadn’t said anything when Yuri nearly fell when one of his crutches slipped in the gravel of their driveway, and merely put a hand on the small of his back to steady him before leaning down, bending at the knee, and handing him the fallen crutch. </p>
<p>Yuri hadn’t been able to look at him all night.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The next meeting with the prosthetist had gone similarly: Yuri was hostile and aggressive every time the man came near, nearly snapping when Otabek had asked him, quietly when the man’s back was turned, to just to try to listen to what Carl said -- so that was the stupid fuck’s name. That had infuriated Yuri so much, he snatched his crutches from where they rested against the table on which he sat, and stormed from the room, fuming. The fact that he could barely open the door and his movement was hindered significantly by the walking implements only served to heighten his rage.</p>
<p>When Otabek had found him, forty-five minutes later, and taken him home, it had been humiliating for Yuri: he pretended that the tear tracks on his cheeks weren’t there. He couldn’t wipe them away though, because both of his hands were occupied with the crutches, and he’d fall if he lifted one. Just another reason to hate being a freak with one leg.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Three days before the third meeting with Carl, -- Yuri fucking <i> hated </i> that he knew the asshole’s name now -- Yuri fell.</p>
<p>It had sucked. A <i> lot. </i> All he’d been trying to do was get out of bed to use the bathroom; all he’d wanted to do was get out of <i> fucking </i> bed. But it was four am, and he was tired, and when Yuri tried to stand up, he fell. Because he’d forgotten that he was missing a leg. He’d fucking <i> forgotten. </i></p>
<p>The crash had woken Otabek who had hurried in from the guest room he currently occupied, too sleepy to register that Yuri was shouting until a pillow came flying at him -- the only thing Yuri could reach from his position on the ground -- and then backed up slowly, hands in the air, and, hesitantly, leaving the room, Yuri growling curses all the while.</p>
<p>Later, once Yuri had emerged from his rage, at least enough to stop trying to rip the comforter apart -- big surprise, he couldn’t do it, though not for any lack of effort -- he tried to get up. </p>
<p>It was harder than he’d anticipated.</p>
<p>He fell.</p>
<p>Twice.</p>
<p>On the third try, Yuri managed to claw his way halfway up onto the bed -- before the covers he’d been clinging to came untucked, and he tumbled, screaming, to the floor once more. This time he didn’t try to get up.</p>
<p>Yuri curled into a ball on the floor, crying, blankets forming a mound on top of him, his stump throbbing from where he’d managed to land on it wrong. </p>
<p>Slowly, carefully, Otabek came back into the room, and, Yuri assumed, hearing Yuri’s sobs from out of sight behind the bed, Otabek walked around it, and gently tucked his arms under Yuri’s quivering form before lifting him back onto the mattress. Yuri was tense in his hold, drawn taut, his head determinedly looking over his shoulder, as far away from Otabek as possible, even while his body still shook with poorly-repressed sobs. </p>
<p>As Otabek held Yuri aloft, retrieving him from the floor he’d been stranded on, the blankets that had been covering Yuri’s lower half slipped off, exposing the pathetic, disgusting stump of his leg for all the world to see. Yuri looked away from the sight of it, lying still in bed, face buried in the side of the pillow as Otabek replaced the covers on the bed, and tucked him in. After just the briefest hesitation at the door, Otabek left, pulling it shut and leaving Yuri alone. Otabek hadn’t said a word the entire time. Yuri cried harder into the pillow.</p>
<p>When morning came, there was no mention of the incident in the night, and Otabek didn’t remark on Yuri’s red, puffy eyes. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When the third meeting with fucking <i> Carl </i> came, Yuri, in that asshole’s words, passed a milestone. At the third meeting, Yuri let Carl touch him, and by him, -- though Yuri <i> refused </i> to acknowledge that it was a part of him -- he meant the stump. </p>
<p>Yuri flinched and stared at the sneaker on his left foot as the man gently probed and massaged the skin just above where his knee should’ve been. He hated the feeling.</p>
<p>“This looks good,” Carl said, smiling at both Yuri and Otabek, oblivious to Yuri’s obvious discomfort and the awkwardness between the couple -- the distance away from Yuri that Otabek stood. “The incision is healing nicely,” he ran his thumb over the pink scar, and Yuri’s entire body flinched; he felt like he was going to puke at the touch. Carl gave him a long look before continuing “There’s a decline in muscle, but that’s to be expected, and I’d say, Yuri, that you’re ready to be fitted with a prosthetic!” What he meant was that Yuri would finally <i> let </i> himself be fitted with a prosthetic. Ass.</p>
<p>Carl did a lot of things that meeting, and Yuri honestly only understood one of them. There was a sock thing that he was supposed to put on over his stump before he put the leg on. He could put on a sock. That was just about all he could do. </p>
<p>Carl, the bastard, wouldn’t let him try to walk on a leg today, saying that at their next appointment a week from then he’d be able to -- hopefully -- get his ‘forever leg’ (what a stupid fucking concept -- Yuri was already supposed to have a goddamn ‘forever leg’ and that had only lasted him 25 years!) and, adjustments made so everything would fit, he could start PT with it on. </p>
<p><i> Maybe </i> he could <i> hopefully <b> start </b> </i> PT with a prosthetic -- months after having his own leg ripped off! Yuri was already doing PT; he went twice a week, and he was only <i> now </i> getting the thing he was supposed to use to supplement a limb for the rest of his life? Yuri felt like his life was nothing but wasted time.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Much to Yuri’s innate <i> fury, </i> walking with a prosthetic leg was fucking <i> hard. </i> It was the FIFTH meeting -- because the leg had to be customized (it was a glorified metal stick, not a pointe shoe for fuck’s sakes, what was there to customize?) and Carl had said that it was too dangerous for Yuri to try to wear it without it being modified; he could injure something (what was fucking left to injure?) -- and Yuri officially <i> hated </i> PT.</p>
<p>Why was it <i> so fucking hard </i> just to <i> stand the fuck up?! </i> He was Yuri Plisetsky, the youngest prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet, world-renowned dancer, prima ballerina assoluta (the highest honor a dancer can ever achieve -- and all because the company felt sorry for the poor fucking cripple who couldn’t dance anymore -- ) damn it, he could fucking walk!</p>
<p>Except he could barely stand on his own yet. </p>
<p>With a scream of frustration and fury, Yuri’s weight shifted and he lost his balance, tumbling down. With the man’s superhuman reflexes, Yuri fell right into Otabek’s arms and was carefully eased back onto the chair/table thingy he’d sat on when the leg had been put on. Immediately upon his being set down, Yuri began trying to stand again, but a set of hands pushed him firmly back.</p>
<p>“What?!” Yuri all but snarled at Carl, “I can fucking do it! Let me go!”</p>
<p>Carl removed his hands in a gesture of peace but still planted himself directly in front of Yuri so he couldn’t stand. “You’ve been doing really well today,” he said, his tone carefully positive but neutral at the same time, “but let’s take it easy: remember, you’re still recuperating.” </p>
<p>Yuri actually growled, <i> “No,” </i> he said through gritted teeth, “I can do it -- let me up.” Carl held his ground, “What the fuck!” Yuri had had it with all of this hypocritical <i> bullshit. </i> “You say you want me to try, to work for it, to fight for it, and then you won’t fucking let me! What the hell? Do you want me to just be a useless blob for the rest of my life? Do you fucking <i> want </i> that? Just let me fucking try!”</p>
<p>Otabek winced, biting his lip, but the look Yuri gave him when he started to speak shut him up. </p>
<p>Carl looked between them and said, in a measured voice, “Yuri, I know you’re an athlete--”</p>
<p><i> “Was” </i> Yuri looked downright dangerous, “I <i> was </i> an athlete.”</p>
<p>Carl sighed. “Fine, you <i> were </i> an athlete and soon enough you <i> will </i> be one again, so I know you’re used to pushing yourself, but this is something where you can’t do that. It takes time and patience and hard work and I have no doubt in my mind that you can do it, but you have to trust the process.”</p>
<p>Yuri glared, “Fu--”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>That night, when they got home, they fought. </p>
<p>It was nasty. </p>
<p>It was the first time since the accident that they had had a fight, though Yuri had given Otabek <i> many </i> opportunities to do so, but he, being the saintly fucking man he was, had never engaged. Tonight, however, he didn’t seem to feel so patient.</p>
<p>He trapped Yuri to do it: -- as if Yuri could possibly get away very effectively, to begin with -- he took his crutches once Yuri had sat down on the couch (something that was next to if not <i> unforgivable </i> in Yuri’s book) and began to talk. </p>
<p>“Yura,” he began, looking nervous, but resigned, “I know you’re having a really hard time right now--”</p>
<p>“Hard?” Yuri asked, the familiar beat of anger pulsing through his veins, <i> “Hard?” </i> He said again. “Yeah, it’s fucking hard.” He snapped, “I lost my leg, Otabek. My leg! My dance, my livelihood, my <i> passion, </i> is out the fucking window! It’s never coming back! Damn right it’s <i> hard!” </i> At a later point, Yuri would feel terribly guilty about how quickly he’d flared up, at how he’d treated Otabek, but now was not that time.</p>
<p>Otabek took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said slowly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to understate it, I just--” he sighed, “Yura,” he said again, “You can’t--” he was struggling to word what he wanted to say, Yuri knew it, but still he became impatient, only heightening Otabek’s distress. Otabek sighed, collecting himself, “I’m here for you,” he changed tack, “I’ll always be here for you: I love you, but--”</p>
<p>“But I’m too much?” Yuri filled in the blanks, “I’m too <i> hard?” </i> He sneered and Otabek flinched at the word. Even if Yuri saw it, though, it wouldn’t have stopped him. Nothing could’ve stopped what was about to come next. “I’m not worth it? I’m too fucked up and broken and fucking <i> literally </i> damaged? You don’t want me anymore? Is that it? Is--”</p>
<p>“Please don’t put words in my mouth,” Otabek interrupted, “Of course not, that’s ridiculous, I just--”</p>
<p>“Ridiculous?” Yuri’s voice was quiet, but it deeply scared Otabek to hear it. “That’s right,” he muttered, voice still low, “Because I’m ridiculous. Just a ridiculous, helpless, fucking amputee. Just me, just <i> Yuri, </i> and what am I now, anyway?” His voice was steadily rising, “I can’t dance anymore! That’s what it was you liked me for, right? You said it: you saw me at that dance camp so fucking long ago and thought I was cute. But now I can’t dance anymore, my main redeeming, <i> fucking </i> quality. So what’s left? My body? Oh, wait,” Yuri gave a cynical, bitter, humorless laugh, “Not that anymore,” he said, “that’s ruined just like dance. So, what is it? What makes you bother to stick around? How can you justify it to yourself, with that bleeding heart of yours? It certainly isn’t my sunny disposition. Maybe my vocabulary? Nah, that’s not it, you’ve always gone for more <i> wholesome </i> types. Or is it-- wait, I know,” a cruel smile made its way onto Yuri’s face. “It’s because you <i> pity </i> me. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s become a matter of poor, broken, fucked up Yuri and taking care of him to feed that fucking savior complex! It’s not about me!” Yuri was yelling now, and he’d be on his feet if he were able, the thought only serving to spur him on, “It’s about how good a person you are to stay with a hopeless case! It’s about you being <i> kind </i> and <i> merciful </i> for not leaving me here and now! Because, let’s face it, who wants a <i> cripple </i> as a husband? Certainly not you,” Yuri scoffed, angry tears forming in his eyes, “Well, how about I make it easier for you then? I’m obviously not the person you, dare I say, <i> loved: </i> you have an out, a psycho, mean, crazy-Yuri out. Take it.” Otabek stood motionless; he was struck dumb. “Give me my fucking crutches, <i> Beka.” </i> The pet name was a taunt, and they both knew it.<br/>
Slowly, Otabek returned the crutches to Yuri, who took them and all but threw himself out of the room, moving as fast as he could go. </p>
<p>Otabek stood there, frozen, for a long time afterward.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The next few days were a maze: they danced around each other, avoided each other, and only spoke when necessary. Otabek because he still couldn’t find the right words to respond to what Yuri had said that night and desperately didn’t want to set him off again before he could even refute the first offense without having to face new charges on top of it. Yuri because he was too fucking mad to speak, the anger simmering just beneath his skin, ready to rise up and attack given the slightest provocation, as it so often was these days. The other reason he wouldn’t do anything first, though, was -- and he would never admit this to anyone, least of all himself -- because he was <i> so </i> fucking terrified of Otabek taking his advice and leaving. </p>
<p>Yuri had been horrible that night, he knew that, and while he physically <i> couldn’t </i> apologize for it, or even summon enough remorse to contemplate doing so for too long, he desperately needed Otabek to ignore what he’d said, disregard it as a fit of anger where things had been shouted that may or may not have been meant. But if Otabek <i> did </i> take him up on it, what would Yuri do? He couldn’t blame him -- he’d practically shoved the suggestion in his face -- but if Otabek actually <i> did </i> leave, <i> did </i> break off the engagement and write Yuri off as a lost cause, Yuri was afraid to think what would happen. </p>
<p>It was as if he was on his best behavior, in a way, Yuri thought, but disregarded it quickly-- he wasn’t some fucking child, and he <i> wasn’t </i> trying to make up for what he’d said. Otabek had deserved it. He had. But in any case, while Yuri wasn’t <i> trying </i> to be good, he wasn’t going out of his way to be difficult. He’d only be difficult if the situation called for it. </p>
<p> And, to his pride’s good fortune, it often did. </p>
<p>Such as that morning, when Otabek told Yuri that Victor was taking him to his PT appointment. Great, that just added insult to -- literal -- injury. Not only did Yuri have to see and deal with <i> Victor, </i> of all people, but he would also be shamed in front of someone else, Victor joining the growing number of people who bore witness to Yuri’s multitudes of failures. And also, a nagging little voice at the back of Yuri’s head added, did Otabek not want to go with him? It wouldn’t be a surprise if he didn’t: Yuri was even more… difficult, at PT than normal, and it would be reasonable that Otabek should want -- need -- a break from him. So there was no point in Yuri feeling upset about it. No point at all.</p>
<p>When Victor dropped Yuri off at home after PT that day -- and Yuri near-violently rejected his offers of assistance in getting up the front steps (which was a feat he’d yet to conquer without Otabek’s *grudgingly taken* assistance) which, in hindsight, it had been a terrible decision to try it for the first time then, even if he hadn’t cracked his head open while doing it -- Yuri was surprised to see that Otabek was not home. Granted, he didn’t exactly check over the whole house, just the kitchen and the living room, but he felt fairly sure that Otabek wasn’t home anyway, and, after the briefest flash of terror that Otabek had <i> actually </i> left him was assuaged by a quick check to see that the man’s belongings were still in the guest room (they were, thank God), Yuri ordered a pizza and carefully arranged himself on the couch to watch Netflix and wait for it. </p>
<p>Had he been paying more attention, and had he checked on the back porch to which the kitchen had a clear view, however, Yuri would’ve seen Otabek sitting on the steps of the back deck, head in his hands, making a considerable effort to stop his shoulders shaking as he broke down. Yuri didn’t, though, and when Otabek ‘came home’ fifteen minutes later, having intercepted the pizza from the delivery guy in the front yard, he believed it when Otabek said he’d been at his recording studio, going over some sound bite or another his producer had wanted him to.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Victor taking Yuri to PT became a regular thing, it transpired, Otabek’s label wanting him in the studio at the most inconvenient of times, he said-- and part of it was true. They did want him in the studio, but he didn’t need to be there until forty minutes after Yuri’s PT started, and left fifteen minutes before it had ended. While he technically could’ve still dropped Yuri off and picked him up on time, Otabek didn’t like the idea of leaving Yuri alone at the gym/training area building during his appointment. Not that he didn’t like or trust Carl: he did; he seemed like a great guy, but Carl didn’t know Yuri like<br/>
Otabek, or, hell, even Victor, did, and he didn’t want Yuri to feel abandoned or forsaken. Not that he’d ever tell Yuri that: he <i> really </i> wanted to avoid another fight. </p>
<p>So, when Yuri left with Victor that day, it was normal, and when he got back, it was normal, and it was only when Otabek, anxiety skyrocketing, told Yuri what he’d told his label that morning, did things take a turn for the worse.</p>
<p>“You <i> what?” </i> Yuri asked, tone scathing.</p>
<p>“I canceled my tour,” Otabek said again, trying to say it as nonchalantly as possible, dropping another handful of cheese into the sauce he was making and stirring it to give himself anywhere to look other than at Yuri.</p>
<p><i> “Why?” </i> Yuri asked, and, by his tone of voice, Otabek knew he had to be <i> very </i> careful with his word choice for this one.</p>
<p>Otabek shrugged, doing everything in his power to play the statement off, and sprinkled a bit of garlic into the sauce, stirring it some more. “I just,” Otabek said, glancing from the saucepan to Yuri, then back to the saucepan. “Thought that it would be best to take a break from traveling for a while.” Otabek could feel Yuri’s glare searing into the back of his neck and forced himself to look him in the eye.</p>
<p><i> “Why?” </i> Yuri said again, “Why did you think that?” </p>
<p>Otabek maintained eye contact, though it was killing him, “I just… felt kinda busy lately, thought I’d take a breather from music for a bit, no big deal.” </p>
<p>Yuri’s eyes narrowed. <i> Fuck. </i> “Oh,” he said slowly, “if you just want to <i> take a breather, </i> that’s fine, it makes sense, but are you sure that it’s <i> music </i> you want to take a breather from? You’re right, you are rather <i> busy </i> lately.” </p>
<p>Maintain eye contact, Otabek told himself: keep looking him in the eye, “What else would it be?” Yuri’s eyes were boring holes into Otabek’s soul, reading him like a book. But it would be worse if he looked away, then he’d be all but admitting to what they both knew Yuri thought. “Besides,” Otabek said with a shrug, “Victor will keep taking you to PT anyway, so--”</p>
<p>“What?” Yuri’s voice was sharp. Panic filled those emerald eyes; looking at such sheer fear hurt Otabek. He looked away. </p>
<p>That was the <i> wrong move. </i> That was <i> definitely </i> the wrong move, if Yuri’s little inhale had anything to do with it. Otabek continued stirring the sauce, adding another clove of garlic, trying to look like he’d had a reason for looking away instead of having done it out of guilt or anything else. Going by Yuri’s next words, he’d failed. </p>
<p>“Whatever,” Yuri’s voice was hard; Otabek knew it to be the type of hard it got right before it broke. “Victor’s better company than you anyway,” that was a low blow, and they both knew it. “I actually prefer it when you’re not there, not so much <i> pressure </i> to perform.” </p>
<p>That was a dead giveaway; Yuri was hurt and upset so he was lashing out. Otabek turned around, opening his mouth to elaborate on his reasoning, but Yuri was gone. </p>
<p>He’d moved more quickly than he had since he’d lost his leg. </p>
<p>Otabek sighed, dropping his elbows onto the kitchen island and his head into his hands. Yuri'd misunderstood him-- Otabek just hadn’t had a chance to tell him that he was still going to be at the recording studio, just making new mixes independently instead of recording with musicians and touring. He still wouldn’t be able to take him to PT because that was when his studio time was booked, not because he didn’t want to be with him, and since they already had this arrangement with Victor…</p>
<p>Otabek shook his head, digging the heels of his palms into his closed eyelids. He’d tell Yuri at dinner.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Otabek did tell Yuri at dinner, but Yuri’d hardly believed him. Otabek had just given him an excuse to make him feel better, Yuri knew, because that was just the kind of guy that Otabek was, and he’d never tell him that he resented him or that he needed a break. Until he snapped, that was, and left him for good.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>About a week later at PT, Yuri took his first steps. His first <i> independent </i> steps. No crutches, no weird physio-barre thing, no one’s hand to hold. Just him and the stupid glorified metal rod he was denying getting strangely attached to. He <i> did it. </i> He did it!</p>
<p>For the first time in a <i> long </i> time, Yuri smiled. He walked all the way along the little walking-path thingy and right the way back, even turning on his own. He looked up, beaming. </p>
<p>“I did it! Bek--” Victor was sitting in Beka’s chair, grinning his heart-shaped smile back at him, and as okay as he was, he wasn’t Otabek. Otabek was supposed to be here for his first steps: Otabek was supposed to see them. Yuri had been expecting Otabek. Yuri had told Otabek to leave him alone. He’d told him that PT was better without him putting the pressure he didn’t put on him on him. Suddenly, Yuri wasn’t very excited anymore.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When Yuri got home after PT that day, he took his ‘forever leg’ with him, and, for whatever reason he was entirely unwilling to think about, Yuri couldn’t wait to show Otabek.</p>
<p>Yuri was still using his crutches, being forced to after a very strict talk with Carl (who doubled as his PT guy, yippee) when he mentioned ditching them for good. Apparently, he’d still be using them for a good while yet and if he even thought about trying to do anything more than standing up without them, Carl would personally kick his ass to New Haven and back.</p>
<p>(After spending some time together, Carl had let his professional persona drop and yelled at Yuri the way his old ballet teacher, Yakov, had done. It worked surprisingly well, Carl discovered, and continued to do it. Yuri had a theory in spite of himself that the familiar tough-love conditions were effective in getting him to work hard and positively reminding him of times when he could still dance.)</p>
<p>Even though Yuri’s personal idea of a reveal was dampened slightly by his still heavy dependence on the crutches, he had a feeling that Otabek wouldn’t mind, and would think only of the prosthetic leg that Yuri wore. Yuri couldn’t wait to see the look on his face; he was fighting a smile all the way home from the prosthetist’s office, and he just <i> knew </i> that this would fix everything. He could walk now, and it wouldn’t be long before he could run and work out again, so that was something to look forward to, and he’d be in a better mood now and stop biting Otabek’s head off all of the time, and Otabek, once he saw how well Yuri was doing, wouldn’t leave him, and things would be okay. Yuri had to look out of the window to hide to relief on his face. <i> Things would be okay. </i></p>
<p>When Yuri stepped into the house, he was disappointed to find Otabek neither in the living room nor the kitchen. Was he not home yet? Yuri bit his lip, practically bouncing up and down, though he knew actually doing so would probably cause him to fall over and his big reveal would be ruined. Where was Otabek?! He needed to show him <i> now: </i> he couldn’t wait! </p>
<p>Just as Yuri had resigned himself to making the arduous trek to search for Otabek upstairs, he glanced out of the kitchen window. He paused, a grin spreading across his face. There was Otabek! He was sitting on the back deck, facing away from Yuri in the window. </p>
<p>Slowly, stealthily (as stealthily as he could be, anyway) Yuri made his way down the hall from the kitchen, quietly opening the back door and taking extra care to set down his crutches perfectly straight (how he was absolutely not supposed to) so as not to make any noise that would alert Otabek to his presence.</p>
<p>Once he’d maneuvered the door shut and was standing in what he deemed to be a good ‘grand reveal’ position and Otabek still hadn’t looked around, Yuri called out, “Guess what!”</p>
<p>Otabek jumped a foot in the air, spinning around to look at Yuri, not even seeming to see the new leg. “Yura!” He said, “I didn’t see you there, when did you get home?” His tone was close to panicked. Yuri frowned: this was not how this was supposed to go. Then he noticed that Otabek’s eyes were red and puffy and that there were tear tracks running down his face. Fuck.</p>
<p>“Beka?” Yuri asked slowly, moving forward on measured crutch sweeps and small steps. “A-Are you okay?” He’d never felt this awkward with Otabek before. In hindsight, that was entirely his fault.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Otabek said quickly, “How was PT?”</p>
<p>“You’re not fine,”  Yuri said, furrowing his eyebrows, “You’re crying; what’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Yura,” Otabek said suddenly as he shifted to help Yuri sit down on the step without accidentally catapulting himself off the deck. “Your leg! You finally got a prosthetic! That’s amazing-- how does it feel?”</p>
<p>Yuri shook his head, “That’s not important right now,” he said, finally getting his ass to meet the wood of the step and bending the knee of his new leg so that it would match his real one. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, Yura, let’s talk about your leg--”</p>
<p>“No,” Yuri interrupted, “let’s talk about whatever upset you enough to make you cry. Why won’t you tell--” And it hit him. <i> Shit. </i></p>
<p>“Really, it’s fine, Yura,” Otabek must’ve seen the look on his face as it dawned on him, hurriedly trying to divert his attention. “It’s not important--”</p>
<p>“It is,” Yuri said quietly, wave after wave of guilt and horror crashing over him. “I did this,” his eyes were wide, “I made you cry.” </p>
<p>Otabek shook his head again, “No, really: it’s fine,”</p>
<p>Yuri looked at him, “It’s not fine,” he said, finally taking in the deep purple tones beneath Otabek’s eyes, their blood-shot quality, the red, puffy skin rimming them. “Please, be honest with me, Beka,” Otabek hesitated, but nodded, <i> “What’s wrong?” </i></p>
<p>Otabek winced, more than tempted to deflect, but he’d promised… He sighed. “A lot,” he said finally, dropping his head down. “I just,  I don’t know, I feel like I’m failing you: I never say the right thing, I can never make you feel better: I don’t know how to help you, and it’s killing me.” He let out a sigh, looking up. The look on Yuri’s face was heartbroken and he immediately backtracked. “Yura, it’s okay, please don’t cry--”</p>
<p>Yuri shook his head, looking at Otabek with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I’m so sorry. God, what have I done to you?” He shook his head, tears running tracks down his cheeks silently, “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, “I’ve been so terrible to you, none of it’s your fault, Beka: you didn’t deserve any of it. And now I’ve made you think that <i> you’ve </i> failed <i> me: </i> God, I’ve failed <i> you! </i> How can you stand to be with me anymore? I’m falling apart and taking it all out on you and <i> I am so so sorry!” </i> Yuri’s lower lip trembled and he burst into renewed tears, throwing his arms around Otabek’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder, doing his best to melt into him. This motion messed with his new prosthetic, bending it kind of weirdly as he clung onto him. It worried Otabek, so he scooted himself and Yuri (who was holding onto him for what seemed like dear life) over a bit so the leg would settle properly before he addressed his distraught lover.</p>
<p>“It’s okay, Yura, calm down, it’s okay, I’m okay,”</p>
<p>Yuri shook his head, still crying, “What have I done to you? I broke you, Beka, I’m so sorry.”</p>
<p>“Shh,” Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri’s waist and pulled him closer, stroking his hair and rubbing his back in an effort to calm him down. He’d never been like this, even after losing his leg: it had always been anger or furious tears, but never <i> this. </i> “It’s okay, Yura, I promise, I’m fine,” Yuri continued crying (Otabek could tell by the jolting motion he felt where Yuri rested against his chest) but he became very quiet, and then --</p>
<p>“Please don’t leave.” It was tiny, muffled against his shirt and Otabek felt his heart wrench: had Yuri been thinking that he was going to leave him? Why on earth would he do that?</p>
<p>“I won’t, Yura, don’t worry about that,”</p>
<p>“Please don’t go,” Yuri sounded like he hadn’t even heard him, “I’m sorry, I’ll be better: I promise I’ll be better,”</p>
<p>Otabek nodded, rubbing soothing circles into Yuri’s back, “I’m not going anywhere, Yura, I promise.”</p>
<p>Again, it seemed like Yura hadn’t even realized that Otabek had spoken. “I’ll stop yelling at you, I promise,” Yuri begged him, “And I have a leg now so it’ll be okay, I’ll go back to being the person you loved and everything will be normal again, just please don’t leave,”</p>
<p>Otabek froze, “Yura,” gently, but firmly, he moved Yuri off of him, holding him at arm’s length so he could look him in the eye. He saw pure terror staring back at him, </p>
<p>“Please don’t leave me alone,” Yuri’s eyes overflowed and seeing him like this worried Otabek more than ever.</p>
<p>“Yura, I am <i> not </i> leaving you,” Otabek said firmly</p>
<p>Yuri sniffled, “You’re not?” His voice was so broken--</p>
<p>“No,” Otabek pulled him back against his chest, kissing his forehead, “Of course not, not unless you tell me to,”</p>
<p>“Promise?” </p>
<p>Otabek would’ve laughed had this not been the context. “Promise. And Yura?” Yuri blinked up at him, “You said that you’ll ‘be the person I loved?’ Don’t do that: I love <i> you, </i> every form of you; nothing will ever change that.”</p>
<p>Yuri’s eyes filled with tears again and for a second Otabek worried that he’d done something wrong, but then Yuri gave a watery smile, “I love you too.” It was the first time he’d said it since the accident. It made Otabek so happy.</p>
<p>That night they talked a lot, Otabek explaining why he had been upset and Yuri apologizing endlessly, and, once Yuri had been thoroughly convinced that Otabek had no plans to pick up and go, they actually got somewhere. Grievances were aired, plans to move forward were thought out, and, most importantly, they each made it clear that they didn’t blame each other for anything.</p>
<p>“I know this hasn’t exactly been easy on you,” Yuri said, biting his lip. Otabek put his thumb on it as a small reminder to stop and Yuri gave him a little smile. “I guess I just forgot that this affected you just as much as it did me and I took everything out on you. I promise not to do that from now on, and I know you said that I’ve reached the week’s limit of apologies,” they both chuckled lightly, “but I’ll never stop being sorry for that.” </p>
<p>That night, Yuri fell asleep in Otabek’s arms for the first time in months, and, for the first time in months, he realized just how much he’d missed it. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Not everything was easy, but they were slowly figuring it out. Yuri’s belief that “I have my prosthetic leg now, and I can walk again, so everything is fine and can go back to normal” was proved wrong in a multitude of ways: lots of things went wrong, lots of pain was rehashed, and there was a fair amount of frustration on both sides, but they never went back to the way they had lived before Yuri had gotten his prosthetic leg and found Otabek crying on the back porch. Otabek never slept in the guest room again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'd like to state, for the record, that the derogatory terms used in this fic such as "cripple" are not meant as slights to amputees, but as ways to express the characters. A lot of this is written from Yuri's POV and, as someone having a hard time going through this, he has an extremely negative outlook on this and addresses it in his mind accordingly. No offense meant!</p>
<p>As always, it makes me really happy to see kudos and comments so I'd love to ask you to consider giving them to me. Thanks, and I'll see you next fic! ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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